In her own mind—at the time—Marian went from first mate to being the secret child of the man who dressed in dark suits and was driven in long, black cars with Maine Legislature license plates. From a summer on a lobster boat to summers in an air-conditioned office and in large cool cars wherein to say “Hey, Jude” to her make-believe girlfriend. She carried out a daughter’s love affair with one father, then with another, and only later saw that she, too, had forsaken one for the magnetic appeal of the other, that her father had faded in her eyes while the senator and state liquor commissioner had grown warmer, funnier, ever easier to talk to than the staunch figure who all but lived on a littered and stinky boat.
By then it was too late to turn back, wasn’t it—when her father was so distant and floating farther away?
If only she had not known in her heart’s core that it wasn’t too late at all, that she had been making choices for wealth and privilege, for clothes, jewelry, makeup. But she had known all along, and suffered over it still; it was what she was knowing again today as she served customers and tried to smile through filmed-over eyes. At the time she had persuaded herself that her mother was at the helm of her existence—that she was merely a girl and too young to know the difference: A boy might be expected to stand with his father in such a crisis, but not a girl, wasn’t it so? Wasn’t a girl at the mercy of powerful men in whose presence she found herself, should she be so fortunate? Weren’t powerful men the answer to a girl’s dreams? She did not feel that way now, but in adolescence it had appeared to be the way of the world, and the way of all flesh, not excluding her own.
Virgil
He returned the Thomaston file to the Maine Authentic drawer and decided to treat himself to a brandy, though it was hardly ten a.m. Not that the hour mattered. Virgil liked inventing his own rules, however quietly he might do so. As he always thought, stealth has its advantages. It might not be a strategy they teach in business school (just as well, else it wouldn’t be stealth), but alas, let the race be to those who accumulate the marbles while others pay fees and rates.
Things were falling into place and Virgil was feeling ever more bold this morning. There was the Warren business to suffer through, but he wouldn’t be letting it get under his skin and it would pass. One more call—just to be certain—then he’d leave to be with Beatrice when the call came from the bank. But first, the brandy (and another, if he felt like it) because he was certain the bank would carry the note. How could they not? Everyone would benefit, and the strings were neatly tied. York National would make money, he and Beatrice would make money, and the note would be paid off in five years—while the contract with the state (to be sure) was renewable. A no-lose deal all the way around. He had stitched it together himself just before leaving office, and the key innovation was that note and contract would be held by Beatrice. She would be entirely on her own and would fly ever higher. Could anyone have had a more successful apprentice, or been more fulfilled as a mentor? Besides all else she was to him, Beatrice was like a fond offspring being handed the reins of a family enterprise. Virgil admired legendary families that built empires lasting generations, and only wished, here in his own senior years, that their names were the same. Had fate been on their side, he and Beatrice would be priming children of their own to assume roles in such a family. Imagine the lineage they might have produced! That it wasn’t so was one of his deepest disappointments.
His offices were above Kittery Pizza on Route 1 with a wall of canopied windows framing a wide-angled view of Portsmouth Harbor and the Route 1 Memorial Bridge to the south. The offices might be described as modest at best. But for the graphite Mercedes in the four-space lot outside, the view of the wide river mouth between Maine and New Hampshire was the only suggestion of privilege, though the square footage—above an aromatic pizza parlor or not—might appear excessive for what Virgil occasionally referred to as a one-man operation.
One man and one or two extraordinary women, he thought, sipping his drink and gazing over his small corner of the world. Give him an extraordinary woman every time as a secret weapon. It was immigrants in the past; now it was women surfacing after having been suppressed for years. Ordinary looking, dedicated, smart. More than just willing, they worked three times as hard as others. That was Beatrice, for sure, though for the moment he was thinking of Janet Derocher, presently in the outer office with its lesser view of Route 1 and the seafood wholesaler across the road. Janet was also worth her weight in gold. They were women of such competence and personality that, set loose, they could compete with the cream of the crop in any brand-name corporation. (Not Marian, he was afraid, nor his wife or daughters, nor most of the women coming and going in the world around them.) Still, there was an untapped resource in those who were gifted because men, and women, too, had for so long measured them through narrow lenses. They were women who were often modest and unaware themselves of the gifts with which they had been blessed. The self-important among them usually proved foolish, while the diamonds-in-the-rough, the Beatrices and Janets, were usually self-effacing. Stealth and boldness were rarely in their quivers, and maybe there was a reason for the glass ceiling, but pound for pound those certain unassuming women would leave many executives scrambling to add up yesterday’s bottom line. It was a little secret that wasn’t necessarily dirty and one he should point out to Beatrice for the future—though how might he do so without indicating her own daughter might not have the goods? (Unless he was wrong about Marian, which he wished he was.)
Champagne—of course! He’d sneak a bottle into the store and when the call came from the bank, he’d rally Marian, and others, and toast Beatrice for gaining the unique new inventory. What could be more authentic, he’d say, than hand-crafted breadboards, toys, salad bowls, bagel racks, laminated birdhouses, and utensils made of pine, spruce, cedar, and made—exclusively—within the Maine state prison system! Who could be more authentic than Beatrice Hudon with her exclusive contract!
She’d be thrilled by a champagne toast and deserved to be, Virgil thought. It was an amazing coup and would bring in thousands down through the years. Tens of thousands. The ash/maple, red/blond bookends alone would become heirlooms, and it was clear already that customers would not be able to resist what Beatrice was calling “melodies in wood grain carved by the hands of stricken souls.”
On the telephone with Jay Shute, Virgil liked how the young banker addressed him: “Senator, the board gave unanimous approval without hesitation.” Virgil gave a little fist pump with his free hand.
“Mr. Shute, could you do me a small favor?” he asked. “Wait forty minutes before you call Mrs. Hudon with the news. I’d like to be there for a little celebration when the call comes in. Then, sometime after lunch, we’ll pick up the paperwork. This is something she’s worked hard for.”
“No problem, Senator. I’ll call Mrs. Hudon at eleven, how would that be?”
“Excellent.”
Life can be a treat, Virgil thought as he inventoried his schedule before leaving. Do your work, maintain your mind-set, keep your ducks in a row—have sense enough to enjoy small successes—and life can be a bowl of truffles. He finished his second brandy, rinsed the glass in the adjoining washroom, and told Janet on the way out that he should be back by around three-thirty.
“Remind me to give you a raise before the end of the year—would you?” he said.
Her face angled his way. “Mr. Pound, thank you.”
“You deserve it. Every investment and property on the books is looking great this year, and it’s due in no small part to your sharp eye.”
“That is nice to hear.”
“After the first of the year we’ll get you started in some accounts of your own, so you can be building a future, too.”
“I’d like that, Mr. Pound. Thanks for thinking of me like that. I’d like that a great deal.”
“Want to keep you around,” Virgil said, on which note, smiling, he closed the door and went on his way. He certainly did want to keep he
r around, he thought as he clipped down the outdoor stairway. As with Beatrice, few things gave him so much satisfaction anymore as having a hand in someone catching on in life. Especially a woman coming into awareness of untapped skills and intelligence—another of his little secrets that was in no way dirty. In twenty years’ time Janet could be on her own, too, and down through the years everyone in her family might realize the benefits of her industry and good sense.
Given the luck of a certain mentor, he reminded himself.
Spotting Marian behind a cash register, Virgil entertained his old doubts about her. He saw her try to smile at an oblivious customer and realized she was half-stricken. Noticing him, she indicated with a nod that her mother was in the office to the rear. The time of the call from the bank was ten minutes away, and Virgil signaled to Marian to confer with him to the side, while a thought entering his mind was to bypass Marian altogether—her problems were already wearying—and proceed with the toasting of her mother on his own. He didn’t; without making eye contact, looking past her hair, he told of the loan going through, the call being on its way and, indicating his parcel, having champagne with which to make a toast. “Imported,” he said.
“She’ll love that,” Marian said. “Only there’s something else that has to be dealt with—but it’s okay.”
Virgil knew at once that it had to be more news of Warren, and his heart sank. “Did you talk to the doctor?”
“He’s got lung cancer. He may have only weeks or days. He’s done nothing. No, I haven’t talked to the doctor.”
“You all right?”
“I’m trying, I’m doing okay.”
“It’s that far along? How’s your mother doing?”
Marian made an expression, and Virgil could see a darkness in her eyes from weeping. “She’s okay,” Marian said. “I’m supposed to see him tonight. Maybe I’ll get a better handle on what’s happening.”
“Well, the account’s gone through—I have this champagne for a little celebration. Should we go ahead with it? It may be awkward timing, but it’s something your mother’s worked on for two years.”
“We should do it. As for my father, he wants to meet with her, to ask some favor—to meet with you, too, I guess—and she’s worried.”
“Well, let’s do what we have to do. C’mon back in a minute, and we’ll drink a little toast. You didn’t tell Ron?” he added.
Marian shook her head, appearing undone by the question, and Virgil patted her shoulder. “Poor thing, you’ve had a lot coming your way, haven’t you,” he said.
Warren
He recalled the first time she stayed away overnight, and, to his surprise, humiliation and anger rose in him again. He had no wish to reopen the old wound, but was helpless against its unfolding. That was his problem—helplessness where she was concerned. She came right at him that first time with what she was doing, said she imagined it would upset him and if so, it was his problem and she was sorry. They were going to Augusta for the state liquor commissioner’s hearings and would be staying overnight—the hearings would not conclude until late afternoon of the third day—when she would return home by ten or eleven p.m.
Why did she have to do this to him? he had wanted to know.
It was the senator’s best chance to gain the position, and he needed his administrative assistant with him to help with documents, paperwork, inquiries. It was her job, was what she was paid to do.
How did Abby feel about her husband staying overnight in Augusta with his administrative assistant?
That she didn’t know; it wasn’t any of her business.
Would she and Virgil have meals together?
Probably, some of the time; teamwork was essential.
Including breakfast?
Why not? The day’s agenda had to be prepared.
Would they be sleeping together? Warren asked, while in his mind he envisioned them in a hotel room locked together.
Don’t be ridiculous, she said to him.
Did she know that some people in town believed they were a couple of long standing—she and Virgil?
There was nothing she could do about what people wanted to believe. That was their problem.
Was she in love with Virgil? Warren had said, and his head had buzzed as he waited for her to reply.
Virgil was her best friend. She worked for him. That was all she could say.
That sounded like “yes” to him.
He could hear what he wanted—she didn’t care.
Go then, he told her. Let your conscience be your guide.
She wasn’t asking his permission to do her job.
He said nothing more, and she walked from the house, slamming the door. Knowing in his bones that more was in place than friendship between his wife and her boss, he tried to gaze away from what he knew. He hoped she had Virgil on a leash, too, but whenever he gave the thought any room, he knew it couldn’t be so. Virgil was a person who lived to have his way, and deep down Warren guessed he may have been exciting to her precisely because he refused to submit. And years later, when he overheard on a dock above where he stood in his boat, “Well, at least Senator Pound and his secretary don’t waste state funds on separate rooms,” followed by laughter, he was wounded all over again, though not surprised.
Half an hour, he thought she had said. It seemed that an hour had passed, and, big surprise, there had been no call. Had she treated anyone, ever, the way she treated him? Still, something within him was finding perverse satisfaction in her response, and he tried without success to envision what he might do if she wouldn’t hear him out. Did he desire that moral outrage be on his side?
Retreating to the sunroom, Warren urged himself not to panic and to take solace in what he had. He was alive, could think and remember things. Pain was close—a platter of water carried in both hands, threatening to spill, a cornhusk of a windpipe threatening to split open within—and existed mainly in the threat of coming up unable to breathe or move. Suffocation and paralysis, a loss of control—they were his sources of fear. It might take hours to die, and he wondered if one resurfaced at once within another world. If he had a soul, would it be swimming all at once within a space like the one he had been imagining? Was a soul but a speck of plankton in the kingdom of the sea—or was it nothing more than an ancient dream?
In the sunroom, through the window, Warren watched squirrels in their adept ways preparing for winter. He admired squirrels for their orderly life, their quick moves, and speed. Squirrels would make perfect infielders, devouring ground balls, digging them out, and executing double plays. Stealing bases, coming in standing up, they would eclipse the immortals.
At least he could think of things. He could visit past and present, and add up one thing and another. That morning, as always, he had wanted to be away from the house before Beatrice started her morning routine. Like a child playing hooky, he had wanted her to think he was at work. Now, at home, it was like missing school as a child, waiting for the telephone to ring. Clouds were moving, and there was added light in the room—a thin light overall, though still a balmy day for baseball in October. He realized he both loved and hated his wife. He wanted to make her happy and wanted to hurt her for what she had done to him. He should have left her long ago when she first took up with Virgil. To think he had worn the horns as if forever, had worn that brown uniform and cap, had carried an ache of loneliness and avoided intercourse with people because he knew they knew. Every day he had felt humiliated. What a fool’s parade his life had been.
Time was racing—now that so little was left to him. Why wouldn’t she just see him? Did she have to confer with her other husband, which was what Virgil was in all but name? Had he possessed her as Warren himself had not? In bed, had she curled in under his arm and been his girl and his wife of the heart? Was it a question he dared ask, if she agreed to meet with him? He knew if he asked such a question at home she’d turn away and close herself into her room. But didn’t he deserve to hear an answer as the game of
life was coming to an end?
Well, don’t get bent out of shape ahead of time, he told himself. Your lungs are going and here you are giving in to old jealousies. Still he knew in his heart, in all clarity, that offering forgiveness was his only road to peace of mind. Let the rest of it go, he told himself. Depart this life with dignity. Offer forgiveness to those who have trespassed against you, and go in peace. Submit to the wisdom of the Almighty; turn the other cheek. Whatever you do, don’t lose control of yourself. Doing so would ruin everything.
Marian
There were times when she wished Virgil would let well enough alone, and she continued to grimace in his wake. It wasn’t that he was bossy so much as he liked having his way without saying so. Acting overjoyed just then and waltzing around her mother over a new account wasn’t something Marian had any wish to do. What of her father, she thought as she tried to refocus on serving customers. Virgil had no idea how terrible she felt over his being sick and that she had all but shunned him all these years. As for Ron—well okay, she had to get him told, but did Virgil think she was unaware of that?
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